


It'll Be Strange to Tell

by FandomsAreMyFuel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Older Work, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomsAreMyFuel/pseuds/FandomsAreMyFuel
Summary: It'll be strange to tell you a young boy that went by John Hamish Watson created a robot to smile with. He knew they couldn't feel and that he was alone, but he still spent all his time on them.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 6





	It'll Be Strange to Tell

It'll be strange to tell you a young boy that went by John Hamish Watson created a robot to smile with. He knew they couldn't feel and that he was alone, he spent all the free time creating the humanoid robot. The shifts of the job busied him to the point where once he opened the door, he would sigh, as he knew tomorrow was another turn; however, once he glanced at the looming figure that he constructed, his tired eyes sparkled with imagination and inspiration that he would jump up and keep going.

All the way until the clock ticked of impatience as the day would end.

He would later place a wig ontop its head and giggle uncontrollably on the modest couch he owned. He would take out his father's old suit and tailor it a bit to fit the robot's body and he would grin in his own oatmeal jumper.

The boy loved the fantasy stories his mother told him, so he made the robot a story, writing all of it in a leather-cover notebook that was placed under a skull he'd gotten as a prize for a silly competition. He would sit next to the window in his room with his hands wrapped around a cup of warm tea, wishing for a moment to hold someone's hand and to say three words.

How cliché.

The days went by until the boy hung up another family photo on the bare walls of his father, mother, sister, and himself. He freed a five-foot Christmas tree from the box and placed it next to the tan sofa, ornaments littered on the green tree. He sighed, plopping himself on the couch, he opened the leather notebook.

'Sherlock Holmes opened the violin case gingerly, his delicate fingers caressed the strands as he played a piece which no man of any class could describe other than the simper that was promptly placed on their faces.

What surprised him the utmost was the careful chime of the doorbell on the ink-black door, which he opened to find; his brother, Mycroft Holmes; his good friend, Molly Hooper; the Detective Inspector, Greg Lestrade; and his landlady, Ms. Hudson, along with many others Sherlock was in presence of.

He permitted them in, the joyful chortled that delivered Sherlock the chance to arrange his sleek fingers back on the strings of the instrument and played songs of merry. The others glanced around to see the Christmas tree and wonderous decorations that were placed on the walls.

After the gathering, his partner knocked on the door and apologized, as his shift was long and he truly didn't want to falter the joyful mood, Sherlock only gave him a smile and chatted with him until they--'

John yawned, setting the notebook down. He hopped up and raced to his room, ticking off '24' with his pen and hurling himself into his bed. He glanced at Sherlock and grinned, waving to him even if John knew that the robot was... a robot.

John rushed out the door. An apple in hand and computer bag on his shoulder. He called 'taxi!' Frantically racing out the cab and dumping money in the driver's hand. He knew today was a Tuesday, but it was oddly the busiest day of the week, though it was Christmas and it was an exception. He huffed, pumping out work in his usual jumper, though this time he wore a candy red shirt under the oatmeal-colored sweater. Surprised he even had it in his closet full of brown jackets, striped button-ups, and earthy-colored jumpers.

He waved goodbye to his colleagues who left early, shutting lights and doors to their office as the world seemed to darken, which left John and his little gleaming computer in his cubicle. For the final time, he sighed. John glanced at the lower right-hand corner where the time shined like gold in a mine and he lay his head on his crossed arms before raising his head high to continue the code.

He groaned as he felt his knee hit the desk's metal leg and he lifted himself up from his chair after several hours of reviewing the code. Though he worked as a coder and sometimes an engineer, he was at the point where his pay was non-existent as he could only review and didn't actually code for the company. He murmured an incoherent string of words.

Placing his bag on his shoulder and throwing the apple core into a small patch of dirt with flowers and trees, he waved a cab and jumped inside tiredly.

He jolted away when the cabbie drive hit the brakes and John saw the familiar scene of his house, he handed the driver a few bucks and rushed to see his soft bed again, but while he got to the door he usually stopped at, he didn't recognize it. The door was midnight black with gold letters that read; '221-B Baker Street' rather than a plain brown door with a worn plate of a tan color. He glanced around before slipping his key into the keyhole and the door let go of the doorframe.

With no warning, the door swung open and a pale man, lean and tall, black curls that were in all different directions but somehow made them look better than any neat hairstyle, wearing a purple button-up and dress pants, greeted John.

John walked in, his general layout of a simple tan couch replaced by two small chairs that faced each other. John heard the man's voice, a shiver threatening to run through his spine as he heard the man's low voice that was almost bored sounding. John listened intently as the man complained under his breath of the DI's stupidity and how easy it was to figure out the murderer. John shook his head, not daring to say a word.

"John?" Asked the dark-haired man who took a quick glance to the shorter man. John nodded immediately and stepped into the house, glancing down at his palm, he saw the gleam of sweat.

"Sherlock?" The blonde asked. The man glanced up, uninterestedly with an expression of ice. "You okay?"

"For a high-functioning sociopath? Ah, yes." Sherlock chuckled, twirling around back to his last posture, which was of his fingers tips touching and his eyes unfazed as if he were never interrupted in the first place.

"I--" John stuttered under his breath and Sherlock stood up, standing in front of him, he gripped John by the left should with his right hand.

"Merry Christmas, John." The consulting detective smiled.

"Wake up." And John did.

"Holy sh--" Were the only words that came out of John's mouth before he glanced at the clock... the digital clock in his office. "What the hell was that?" He would say over and over, shaking his head as if he just witnessed a UFO pick him up and performed experiments on his body and he just came back.

"Hello, John." A familiar voice called to him. He stood up, a white lab coat that read: 'Doctor J. Watson' sewed in of an inky black color... the door of 221-B Baker Street... John concluded. He ruffled the lab coat and stepped outside, a taller man stood there. "Merry Christmas." The man handed him a card. '7:38, Lestrade wants us to meet in Scotland Yard. -SH' John read. The doctor glanced up and Sherlock smirked, John only knew that face at the times the doctor would giggle at jokes, being in the craziest situations.

He loved it.

It'll be strange to tell you a--once--young boy that went by John Hamish Watson would create a future that puts a smile on his face, with a man who was almost robotic.

Almost.


End file.
